


Breaking Points

by Backwoulds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry John Winchester, Angry Reader, Angst and Porn, Bad Decisions, Daddy Issues, F/M, Good Sex, If you're gonna have sex with John it might as well be like this, Mistakes may have been made, POV Second Person, Poor Life Choices, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Top John Winchester, Violent Sex, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 12:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15949592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: A demon's half-truths push the reader to her breaking pointEnter John Winchester.





	Breaking Points

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out going in a veeeeery different direction, and then I got bored.
> 
> John and the reader are definitely supposed to have a firm surrogate parent/child relationship outside of this... er... transgression. Honestly, I felt super weird writing this because it’s clearly the same “YOU” I’ve used in other stories, and I don’t consider this “canon” in my tiny little fic universe. But then also... John Winchester being sexy? So there.
> 
> ALSO. I’m asexual, so writing smut is a bit... ???? I dunno. First time trying it since I was about 15. Hope it does not suck.
> 
> Wrap your shit. Consent is sexy. Etc. etc. 
> 
> I think those are all my disclaimers. Please for to enjoy John Winchester being the sexiest worst.

You're sitting on the floor of another nondescript motel room cleaning your gun. It's not that it needs cleaning; you're too good about maintenance for that to be the case. It soothes your nerves to clean your weapon, and right now your nerves need soothing.

The hunt last night didn't go as you expected. It happens sometimes; it's easy to get down about it. But that's not what's eating you. What's eating you is the fact that you listened—actually listened—to the demon you were tracking before exorcising the bastard, and now you can't get its words out of your head.

You know better than to listen to them. You've been warned against it your entire life. You don't talk to the monsters any more than you have to, and you sure as hell don't pay attention to anything they have to say if they aren't tied down and answering your questions. Well, this one was tied down, but it didn’t plan to answer anything. It was taunting you, and eventually it wore you down and you let it in.

“Daddy's little girl is aaall grown-up.”

You'd stopped dead in your tracks. The smirk on its meatsuit's face told you it knew it had you.

“Shut the hell up,” you'd growled. It only laughed.

“I guess you've got to be the adult now that he's gone, don't you, sweetie?”

Dean stiffened next to you. “Don't listen to it. Shut it out until we can exorcise the son of a bitch.”

“You've got to be the adult now that you’ve killed him.”

It only got worse from there. You didn't respond, you couldn't respond, but the thing kept talking, and all it talked about was how you were responsible for your father's death.

It isn't your first demon, but you haven't faced many. You're not used to the way they use half-truths to get to you. Even so, you could have done better. Should have done better. Your dad would be ashamed, except, as the demon was so kind as to remind you, he's not around to be ashamed of you anymore.

John showed up about fifteen minutes into that trip down memory lane and finished the thing off. You were blinking back tears by the time the black smoke poured out of that poor accountant's body and disappeared between the floorboards. Dean and John took point on getting the man to the hospital when it was all finished. One look at your face told them both you needed time to regroup after what had just happened.

That's how you find yourself here on the floor, alone with your thoughts and your weapon. You haven't cried yet, but god knows how much good it would do you to let it all out. That's not your style these days. The last time you can remember crying is when—

It's when your dad died.

It's been almost seven months now, but the wound is just as open and raw as the day it happened. Sometimes Dean tries to talk to you about it, but John always shuts him up. He knows better. He knows as well as you do that all the talking in the world ain't gonna bring your dad back. All it's going to do is slow you down and make you more vulnerable to monsters like that demon, dragging out your dirty laundry to rub in your face.

Never mind the fact that the demon today did that anyway. Maybe Dean has a point, but you’re starting to prefer John’s way of doing things.

You finish cleaning the gun just as you hear a key in the door. Your body goes stiff on instinct, but you recognize the footsteps you hear accompanying the sound. It's John. You'd know those boot-falls anywhere. What you don't hear is a second pair of feet. Dean isn't with him.

The door opens slowly and John stands looking at you for a moment without coming inside. You're facing the doorway, but you don't look up. You're staring down at the reassembled pistol in your hands and hoping that maybe John will head directly for the shower without saying anything. His pause in the doorway, however, tells you he won't.

John clears his throat, but you still won't look at him. He walks inside and closes the door gently behind him. “Dean's grabbing some dinner for us at that diner out on Route 9.” You nod. “He, uh, told me. About what happened.”

You go stiff again and grit your teeth, steeling yourself for the lecture you know is about to come down on you.

“You know better than to listen to those things, kid.”

“I didn't mean—” Your voice catches in your throat. It's shaking. It makes you sound weak, and you are sick and tired of being made to feel weak today.

John makes his way to the pull-out sofa next to you. He's been sleeping there this week while you and Dean take the two queen beds. Normally, you'd get a separate room and leave the Winchester Men to their Winchester Man-things, but you've fallen back on the “safety in numbers” rule during this hunt. A little privacy isn’t too much to sacrifice to make sure nobody ends up getting killed prematurely.

He sets his gun down on the TV stand beside him and sits down, the couch springs squealing under his appreciable weight. You wonder for a moment how the hell John's been able to sleep on that thing and almost crack a smile at the thought. You keep your eyes low, still not wanting to look him in the face. Instead, you concentrate on his mud-caked boots, your own gun sitting limply in your hands.

John notices. He reaches down and takes the gun from you. His fingers are rough and warm where they brush against yours. Under any other circumstances, you'd fight a man tooth and nail for taking away your weapon, and you're damn sure you'd win. There's nothing alarming about this move, however; John makes sure you know that. He's moving slowly, like he's not sure if or when you're going to go off. He's been moving like that around you a lot these last seven months. Dean has, too. The longer you go without breaking down, apparently, the more they're worried you're going to lose it. And you guess John may have decided that today's demon incident may be the straw that broke the camel's back.

“You're acting like I'm a spooked horse,” you mumble, still staring at his boots.

“Horses don't carry guns,” he replies, carefully placing your gun next to his.

You can't help but laugh at that. It's a short, quiet sound, but it's enough to break some of the tension in the room. John smiles briefly.

“I know you didn't mean to let it get to you,” John says, relaxing a little now that he's heard you laugh. “Nobody means to let that crap happen. Those things have a way of getting in. But you know that.”

“I do,” you agree. John leans in a little, trying to get you to look at him. You still can't. You don't know what you might see on his face, and you're still too strung out to find out.

“You want to talk about your dad?” The question catches you completely off-guard. You jerk your head up to look into his eyes and find his cold, unquestioning stare waiting for you.

Your brows come together in confusion before you realize he only asked the question to shock you enough to look up. He has no intention of talking to you about your deep, dark pain. John Winchester doesn’t talk feelings. He just needs you to let your guard down, and he knows asking you about your father will trip you up. You're pissed.

“You want to talk about Mary?” The question passes your lips before you even have time to think about it.

Shit.

John winces like you've slapped him. His eyes flash red before he breaks your gaze. He drops his eyes to his lap where he clenches his hands into fists. When he speaks, his voice is a barely-controlled whisper.

“That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me.”

“Then don't ask me if I want to talk about my dad.” Your mouth is a tight, pale line on your face. “Especially if you don't have any god damn intention of talking about him.”

The two of you are quiet for a long time, both of you trying as hard as you can to get yourselves under control. You're both furious, and neither of you is sure whether to be more furious with the other person or with yourself. John clearly didn't expect this when he sent Dean off to get dinner. You’ve never been as much of a supplicant as Dean, however, and John should have known that.

You're staring hard at John, almost willing him to give up on calming himself so the two of you can really go at it. That would be more refreshing than anything at this point. Violence, and anger, you understand. You're tired of being mired down by guilt and self-pity and grief with nowhere to vent your frustrations. You'd much rather get into a fistfight with your surrogate father and have to be pried apart by your surrogate brother after you've both drawn blood. It's like John can sense that. When he does finally raise his eyes to meet yours again, you can tell he's thinking the exact same thing.

Twenty-two years since Mary and he'd still rather come to blows than think about losing her. Jesus Christ. Is that what it's going to be like for you? No wonder John Winchester is such an absolute mess.

John raises a finger at you and practically shoves it in into your chest. “You screwed up today. I didn't come here to make you feel like an ass about it, but damn it, you could have gotten yourself killed.” He's talking to you like he talks to Dean. He's talking to you like he's not the one who came in here and started all this.

You slap his hand away from you so hard your palm hurts. “Get your hand out of my face!” Your voice is somewhere between a growl and a scream. You push yourself to your feet and stand in front of him, seething.

John follows suit, the couch screeching in protest as he practically launches himself upright. He towers over you, but lowers his face so your noses are almost touching. “You want to hunt alone, you can put yourself in as much danger as you want, but you hunt with me and my son, and you need to get your god damn act together!”

You scream at him so loud, your vocal cords hurt. “YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER.”

The words hang there in the air for a moment. Neither of you breathes. There’s not even an inch of space between you. You can feel John trembling, he’s so close.

And then he closes the gap.

You press your mouth into his before you’re even aware what you’re doing. His arms close around you and he’s pulling you to his chest, winding a hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and holding you against him. By the time you realize you’re standing in the middle of your motel room kissing John Winchester, it’s too late. There’s no way in hell you’re stopping this now.

John’s hand tightens in your hair and a current hits you directly between your legs. His stubble is pressing almost painfully against your face. His tongue is deep in your mouth. Everything about this is wrong, but you can’t seem to make yourself care. All that matters is how _good_ you feel.

John’s grip tightens again as he finally breaks the kiss. He tilts your head back just enough to look you in the eye. “Say the word, and we stop this. We don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

You don’t answer. You search his eyes long enough to see he isn’t going to stop this unless you do, then grab his neck and pull his mouth back into yours. He groans, and the sound does things to you you didn’t think a sound could ever do. Your hand slides up to the back of his head and the kiss deepens. He presses his body against you, and you can feel him getting hard as he grinds his hips into yours.

His arms tighten around you, and John is suddenly lifting you off the ground. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you like that for a moment, and you’re just coherent enough to marvel at how strong he is to support your weight so effortlessly. His grip on you almost hurts. And it feels fucking amazing.

John walks you over to the bed, not breaking the kiss until he stops to throw you onto your back on the thin, shitty motel mattress. He follows quickly and kneels between your legs, leaning forward to snake his hand back into your hair. He pulls your head back sharply, exposing your neck to him. You can’t help but gasp and arch your back into the movement. You’re completely vulnerable, your body open to him to do whatever he wants with it. He stares down at you for a moment, drinking in the sight. You don’t give in to John. You never have. You’re not a supplicant. And now you’re lying here, ready to give him whatever he wants. He shouldn’t be as turned on by it as he is. Neither should you.

You reach up to John’s waistband and start unbuckling his belt, but he stops you. He holds you firmly by your hair, keeping you in place. His eyes bore into yours. It should be uncomfortable, and it probably will be looking back on it after all is said and done. The heat, the raw need you see there is almost enough to make you squirm.

So why did he stop?

“This is all kinds of fucked up, sweetheart,” John finally says. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears you almost don’t hear him.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice breathless.

He goes back to saying nothing, and you start to worry he’s going to call it after all. You’re almost afraid to move. No matter how this ends now, you both know you’ve royally screwed up. You can see it in each other’s eyes.

“I need to hear you say it,” he says at last. You’re not sure you understand.

“Say what?” You ask. Your brows knit together again.

A darkness comes over his face when he replies. “I need to hear you say yes.”

For a moment, you can’t remember how to speak. Whatever you see in his expression stops you cold. It’s some combination of power and dominance you’ve never seen on John Winchester’s face before. It’s the promise that he is going to have you. He is going to take you and overpower you and fuck you, and you are going to be his. Completely. For as long as it lasts.

The word leaves your mouth, barely a whisper: “Yes.”

Ooh boy, you have fucked up big time.

John yanks on your hair so hard you see stars. The ache between your thighs is unbearable. He brings his face down next to yours and speaks softly into your ear. You could come right now if he only touched you in the right place. “You do what I say, you understand?” You nod.

“Put your hands up over your head and keep them there.” You do as you’re told. John gently releases your hair. “Don’t move,” he adds, pulling away as he finishes unbuckling his belt where you left off. He tears off most of his clothing as you watch, following his order to stay still. There’s nothing graceful about it; this isn’t a strip-tease. His need is the thrumming current through all of his movements. He undoes his fly, but stops there, leaving his jeans on. They hang open obscenely. He isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Before you can ask him about it, John’s working on your jeans, unbuttoning them and working them down over your hips. You reach down to help him and he catches one of your wrists in his hand and jerks it up in front of your face with a suddenness that’s beautifully painful. That current hits you again.

“Don’t make me tell you again, sweetheart,” he warns. He releases your wrist and you put your arms back where they’re supposed to be. You worry for a moment that he might take things slower to punish you for ignoring a direct order, but John surprises you again by pulling your jeans off even faster than before. His movements are borderline-violent, and, god help you, it’s got you wanting to fuck him even more.

Once your jeans are in a heap on the floor, John makes quick work of your underwear. He strokes himself with one hand while the other finally finds its way between your legs. When his fingers brush your slickness there, it’s like he’s completing a circuit. Your body jerks against his touch and it’s all you can do to keep from moving your arms again to touch him back.

“This is gonna be fast, sweetheart, you understand?” You’re very close to whimpering now. He’s gently circling your clit with his fingers. One slips inside you, then two, and the sound that escapes you brings a smirk to John’s face. If you weren’t wet enough for him before, you certainly are now. “I need to hear a yes, darlin’.”

It’s too much. You’re nearly on the verge of tears. “Jesus Christ, yes, John. Just fuck me.” The desperation in your voice should embarrass you, but you’re way past that point now. “Please, please fuck me.”

It’s all he needs. John shoves himself into you with a groan. He grabs your wrists so hard you cry out and pins you to the bed while he fucks you. The noises he makes are exquisite. The pace he sets is ruthless. It hurts so fucking good.

You struggle against his grasp to touch him, to feel him, but he overpowers you. He’s in charge. He’s in charge and he likes reminding you of it. He likes feeling you fight back. He presses bruising kisses into your mouth. He’s hurting you, and the pain is getting you off, and you return it all in kind.

All of the anger, all the frustration and hatred and self-loathing you’ve been carrying around for months—you reach into the depths of yourself and take every ounce of it out on John’s body. Your struggles against him get stronger; he’s really having to work to hold you down now. Your fingernails are cutting into the backs of his hands where he’s holding you.

John seems to need the pain and fighting as much as you do. His grip on your wrists is crushing. His hips slam into yours. The sounds in the room are obscene. You’re both on the verge of screaming. His pace speeds up. He moans crudely into your ear and you know he’s almost there.

The orgasm that hits you is violent, sudden. You feel your muscles spasming around John, and it’s exactly what he needs to push him over that same edge. He thrusts into you one final, brutal time and comes, holding you roughly against the bed until he’s finished. He’s still wearing his jeans. You’re still in your flannel. He pulls out of you slowly with a sigh.

John lets go of your arms to hold himself up above you. You’re both panting. Neither one of you speaks. All you can do is look at each other, and take mental stock of what you’ve just done to each other’s bodies.

Well, you wanted to have it out with John, didn’t you? You wanted to tear at each other until one of you drew blood? Be careful what you wish for, kid.

The room is silent now except for your breathing. “Dean will be back soon,” you say at length. Your voice sounds distant even to you.

John doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring down at you like he can’t figure out what you’re doing beneath him. You break eye contact first and roll him off of you. He lands on his back beside you. You draw yourself up until you’re sitting and wait for the feeling to return to your legs.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say when you’re sure you can walk. You push yourself off the bed before John can say anything and walk into the bathroom.

You lock the door behind you and start unbuttoning your shirt as you turn on the water. There are already bruises starting to form on your forearms where John’s hands have been. You look at yourself in the mirror and see your mouth is swollen and red. You slide your flannel off your shoulders and stare at your reflection for a solid minute before you decide to step into the stream of the shower.

It’s hot. It hurts. It’s good.

John was right about one thing. This is all kinds of fucked up.


End file.
